Cherokee Stranger. Sheri WhiteFeather
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up a stranger in a bar.”
“So what’s your excuse?” she shot back.
My dead wife, he wanted to say. The mother of his lost child. “Men don’t need excuses. Men—” He froze, realizing how harsh he sounded, how ungentlemanly he was behaving.
God help him, he knew better. In spite of his crude upbringing, of the crimes he’d committed, he knew how to treat a lady, how to respect her.
“Men what?” she asked, shoving at his shoulder, trying in vain to push him away, to keep the monster he was at bay.
“Nothing,” he said, taking a step back, giving her the space she needed, hating himself for the discomfort he saw in her eyes.
She released a shaky sigh, and he resisted the urge to spill his lowlife guts, to admit why her cancer made him crazy.
“I’m sorry, Emily.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.” He held up his hands, like an outlaw trying to stop the bullet he deserved. “I’m just worried about you.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, a nervous habit he’d seen her do before. Was she contemplating his sincerity?
“I’ll tell you what you want to know,” she finally said.
Silent, he waited for her to make the next move. Which she did, by gesturing to the shallow ridge on her front stoop, offering him a place to sit.
What did he expect after the way he’d acted? For her to invite him into her home? Into her fairy-tale cottage with its lace curtains and artfully painted trim—a place someone like him would never belong.
Emily sat beside James in the shady spot she’d chosen, unsure of where to begin. Her shoulder brushed his, and the contact made her foolishly weak. She would never forget the way he’d kissed her that night, the erotic, openmouthed pressure of his lips, the wetness from his tongue.
And now he wanted to hear about her cancer.
She turned to look at him. Their faces were close. Too close. She shouldn’t have suggested such tight quarters, such a confined place to have this conversation.
His eyes were nearly hidden by the brim of his hat. She couldn’t see into the window of his soul, couldn’t uncover his secrets. Even though he’d managed to uncover all of hers.
“Do you know anything about skin cancer?” she asked.
He shook his head. “A little. But not enough to understand what’s happening to you.”
“I have melanoma.” The most dangerous form of skin cancer, she thought. “It begins in a type of cell called a melanocyte. Melanocyctes produce melanin.”
“The pigment in our skin,” he said.
“Yes.” She gazed at him, at his deep, rich coloring. “People with fair skin and red or blond hair are at risk because their skin cells have less melanin.”
“Like you.”
She nodded. In spite of her fair skin, of her tendency to burn, she’d spent years trying to perfect a tan, to look good in a bathing suit. She thrived on summer days, on splashing in a nearby river, on strolling along sun-dappled trails.
Until now.
“How did you find out you had melanoma?” he asked.
“I went to my HMO doctor on another matter. I twisted my ankle and decided to have it x-rayed.” Avoiding his gaze, she glanced at the yard. A freshly fallen leaf stirred in the breeze, fluttering to the ground. The May weather was mild, but Emily’s emotions ran rampant. She dreaded the onset of summer, of challenging the sun, of being overly cautious every time she stepped outside. “My ankle was fine, but the doctor noticed a suspicious-looking mole on my leg.”
“Suspicious-looking?”
“The shape was irregular and the color was uneven. I never paid much attention to it. To me, it was just a mole. It had been there for years.” Emily steadied her voice, determined to make this sound more clinical. Less personal. She wanted to overcome her anxiety, to feel like herself again. “My doctor referred me to a skin care clinic in Lewiston. They removed the mole and got a pathology report.”
He waited for her to continue, but she paused to pull air into her lungs. She didn’t like discussing this with a stranger, a man she’d almost slept with.
He shifted his weight, making her much too aware of his body next to hers. Anxious to get this conversation over with, she went on. “There are different types of melanoma and the disease is diagnosed in stages, which is determined by the thickness of the cancer and how deeply it’s invaded the skin. Mine is considered stage one.”
“When is your surgery scheduled?”
Rather than gesture to the afflicted area, to the part of her that would soon be scarred, she kept her hands still. “Next Friday.”
James studied her, much too intensely. “What about recovery time?”
“It depends on the extent of your surgery and what kind of work you do. I’m taking a month off.” She wondered why he seemed determined to grill her, to acquire every last detail. “My boss offered me a few weeks sick pay, and I was going to take a vacation this summer anyway.” To spend some lazy days at the river, she thought. To bask in the sun. Something she could no longer do. “That will be more than enough time.”
“Is your family going to look after you?”
“My parents passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his shadowed eyes meeting hers.
“Thank you.” Facing this without her mom and dad made her feel vulnerable, especially with James watching her so closely.
He cleared his throat and prompted her with another question. “Who’s taking you to the hospital?”
“A girlfriend. She’s going to keep an eye on me afterward, too.”
“I can help,” he said. “I can stop by when your friend isn’t available.”
She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” He reached out to skim her cheek, to trace the contours of her face.
“Yes.” Emily refused to admit how nervous she was, how being diagnosed with cancer had changed her. “I won’t be bedridden.”
He ran his fingers along her jaw. “If you need me, all you have to do is call.”
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